


The Mere Shadow of a Man

by Rabbit



Category: 1776
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabbit/pseuds/Rabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Dickenson/James Wilson Smut. Dickenson is bitter. Wilson is trying so hard to be sympathetic. But it's becoming so difficult. both the sympathy, and the hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mere Shadow of a Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marshalmeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshalmeg/gifts).



"So you see, James..." It wasn't that Dickenson spoke constantly, but it seemed lately, when he and Wilson were alone, he spoke _almost_ constantly, "they are-- thank god-- alone, an isolated little bunch... oh yes I know, I know, they've got a genuine voice among them in the form of Franklin, but Adams..." He trailed off, "Adams, Adams, Adams. Adams not only cancels them out, he shoots them in the foot. Ah, James, as long as Adams leads the movement for this... so called 'independence', whatever the actions of that ridiculous Lee, we are... ah... perfectly safe." 

"Yes John," Wilson sighed, "Oh... yes John." 

"RIGHT," Dickenson groaned, and Wilson groaned too, only partially for the same reason. It wasn't that he minded listening to Dickenson expound on their strategy-- or lack thereof, it seemed sometimes, for Dickenson was truly and utterly secure in the natural rightness of his position-- it was that he had to talk about it... NOW.

"John, I..." 

"It's that Adams, though..." Dickenson grunted, "God DAMN that Adams... "

"Um, John, please..." 

"He tasks me James, he drives me... ARGH!" John's fingernails dug into the skin of his back most painfully, but he ignored his cry, "My god James, if I could I'd..." Dickenson dissolved into incomprehensiblity for a very long moment, and Wilson gritted his teeth hard. Once again, it wasn't that he _minded_ , exactly, this sort of thing... John was so much more passionate when he was angry... but dear lord, this was happening far too often lately, and getting more and more disturbed and disturbing. Ever since Lee had come back with the proposal and the motion on the discussion of independence had passed. Nothing had made it any better, even the walkout of the entire South and the unflagging support of Edward Rutledge... 

Rutledge. He didn't want to think about Rutledge right now. With his oily voice and smooth charm, and the way his serpentine eyes snaked over Dickenson, lingering too long... all right, they lingered too long on everything, even Wilson himself, but still, STILL... 

"Oh god, that Adams, ADAMS..." Dickenson roared into his neck.

"Adams?" Wilson squeaked. 

"YES, ADAMS, OH GOD, ADAMS, ADAMS..." 

Oh god, god, no... Wilson trembled desperately, thankful for the bed beneath him and that for once John hadn't decided to take him over a desk, or some random stick piece of furniture which might wobble or collapse under the severity of his trembling now. He did not, he had not... but he was still doing it, growling That Name and thrusting into him, over and over, horribly, maddingly... no, this was not happening. He swore aloud this Was Not Happening. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth so hard he was afraid he'd rip holes in his tongue. 

"John... John, please..." It was beginning to hurt, more than just the nails. Dear god in heaven, whether or not prayer was appropriate, "John, what are you doing...!? What are you..." 

But Dickenson ignored him, as per usual, and he was still screaming Adam's name as he came viciously-- and even more thunderously than usual-- inside of him. 

For Wilson's part, he had to close his eyes and (guiltily) think of, of all people, Rutledge to get there, but he did eventually, even after Dickenson had slithered out of and off of him, laying panting on the bed and half asleep. 

"John..." Wilson whimpered, the hurt plain in his voice. 

"What is it...James...?" Dickenson's voice was thick with sleepiness and not a little irritated. James sighed. 

"Nothing John, nothing." He smoothed the damp hair back from his compatriot's forehead and kissed it, feeling still unconciencebly guilty. "Go to sleep." 

Dickenson did, sprawled, as per usual, over most of the bed. He would not necessarily expect Wilson to be there in the morning-- usually, he took himself off to a guest room after-- but he wanted badly to remain. Maybe he would this time. Maybe. 

With an internal sigh and groan-- it would not due to wake Dickenson, that would be inviting any number of unpleasant consequences-- Wilson slid out of the bed, gathered his mangled clothing from the floor and slipped on a robe, which John could recover in the morning of he wanted it. For god's sake. 

And for God's sake-- and his own-- maybe it was time to rethink his own positions.

Figuratively, as well as in the very, _very_ literal sense. 


End file.
